Maddon's Rock

CHAPTER ONE

WE SAILED FROM MURMANSK

The story of the Trikkala is a strange one. She was a Greek ship, taken over by Britain in 1941, and operated by the Kelt Steamship Company on behalf of the Ministry of War Transport until 5th March, 1945. At 0236 hours on that March morning her career officially ended. A single paragraph, in a trade paper, records her end: The SS Trikkala, a freighter of 5,000 tons, was mined and sunk on 5th March, 1945, with the loss of twenty-three lives. She was in convoy and her position at the time of the sinking was approximately 300 miles north-west of Tromso.

Yet, on the 16th of May, 1946 – just over a year later – the Naval W/T station, Loch Ewe, near Oban, picked up an SOS from a vessel describing herself as the Trikkala. Shortly afterwards this vessel radioed information that left no doubt as to her identity. It was the Trikkala. In view of the importance of her cargo, an Admiralty tug was sent out to bring her in, and for two days there Was hardly a person in the country who was not speculating on the mystery of her dramatic reappearance.

I suppose I know more about the Trikkala’s story than anyone still living, except perhaps Bert Cook, who was with me. I was one of the survivors of the sinking in March, 1945. And it was I who sent out the SOS from the Trikkala in May, 1946. Accordingly, I have set out here the full story as I saw it, beginning from the night before she sailed from Murmansk.

It was the 2nd of March, 1945. Bert and I were awaiting repatriation to England. Murmansk was bitterly cold. The wind ran shrieking through the great wooden shed of a warehouse in which we were billeted. It tore the cardboard packing from the broken window panes. It ripped in under the eaves and up through the cracks between the floorboards. And with it came a powdery drift of snow that sifted along the floor like sand across a desert. The vast storage floor of the shed was packed with Red Army men, vague doss-house shapes, huddled in blankets that were whitened with snow.

There were eight of us awaiting repatriation and we had been allocated a room to ourselves that had once been an office. It had a calendar and a brazier. That was all the furniture. Most of us were huddled around the brazier for warmth that night. Twenty-two days were marked off on the calendar. We had been waiting for a ship all that time. I remember thinking how in England the blackthorn would be out and there would be a smell of spring in the air. But in Murmansk the trees were black and the world was still in the grip of winter. There was ice everywhere, and a heavy blanket of snow muffled all sound, so that even the great Red Army supply wagons, with their iron-shod wheels, moved through the streets without a sound. Murmansk will always be to me a memory of intense cold, of men’s faces ruddy in the glow of a brazier and of the never-ceasing noise of the wind above the clatter and whistle of the trains and the singing of the Russian soldiers.

An extra heavy gust of wind beat against the windows. One of the cardboard panes blew out and an icy blast shivered through the room. ‘Cor stone the crows!’ Bert Cook muttered. ‘’Ark at that awful wind. As if life ain’t miserable enough, but it ’as ter blow a blizzard. An’ it’s me berfday tomorrer. Nice berfday I’m goin’ ter ’ave, I don’t fink.’ He looked round the bare wooden room, cluttered with kit, and then leaned closer to the brazier. He had a little monkey-like face. It was creased by laughter, and the lined, almost leathery skin was reddened by the glow of the hot coals. He had had all his teeth out just before leaving England and his cheeks had fallen in around the empty gums like the cheeks of an old crone. ‘S’ppose the Ruskies ain’t got no glass, poor devils,’ he went on. ‘But they might board the winders up – cardboard ain’t no good in this sort of wevver.’ He got up then and fitted the bit of cardboard back into the window. He leaned a rifle against it to keep it in place. Then he came back to the fire. ‘Reminds me of the Free Fevvers da’n St. Paricras way, this place does. Always was a draughty pub.’ He grinned at the others and spread his dirt-stained hands to the blaze.

I liked Bert. He was the sort of man that makes four years in the ranks seem worth while. Nothing ever really got him down. He was a Cockney. His home was in Islington. But Islington or Murmansk, it didn’t worry him. I’d met up with him at a Russian Ordnance depot near Leningrad. I had been sent over to assist in the maintenance of certain predictors and Bert was there with a gunnery team, demonstrating the drill for a new gun Britain had recently sent to Russia.

Bert was gazing round the group of faces huddled close to the brazier. ‘Help! What a country!’ he muttered. ‘No wonder Jerry couldn’t stick it.’ His face brightened to a grin. ‘I got ’arf a bottle of vodka in me kitbag. I was savin’ it fer termorrer. But we’ll knock it back when we’re in the ol’ scratcher. That’ll help liven up the cockles.’ And he rubbed his hands over the blaze. Then his face clouded. ‘But when I fink of the Ol’ Woman all alone wiv the kids in Islington,’ he added, ‘it fair makes me blood boil. A munf’s disembarkation leave we got waitin’ fer us when we land. An’ we’re stuck in this dump. Look at that calendar! Free whole weeks we bin hincarcerated in this ware’ase – the job finished, guns all ready ter bang away at Berlin an’ a nice word o’ praise from a Rusky colonel. An’ wot do we get? Free weeks in this ’ell ’ole. Dartmoor ain’t got nuffink on this place. Got any fags left, Corp?’

I opened my case. ‘Gawd!’ he said. ‘Only four left – an’ Roosian at that. Better save ’em ter smoke wiv the fire-water. Where’s Mister Bloomin’ Warrant Officer ternight?’

Warrant Officer Rankin was the senior occupant of the room. He was large and fat with a smooth face and a soft voice. Blue eyes peered at you over little pouches of white flesh and his hands, which pawed eagerly at the shoulder of any subordinate who was sufficiently servile, were podgy and neatly manicured. When angry his soft voice became high-pitched. He stood very much on the dignity of his rank. And one felt that without that advantage of rank, his voice might easily deteriorate into a whine. He had been sent over to do a technical job for the Navy and was temporarily in charge of some Naval stores.

‘The same place as he was last night,’ I told Bert in answer to his question, ‘and the night before and every night since we’ve been here.’

He gave an evil cackle, displaying his toothless gums. ‘Calls it learnin’ Roosian. That’s a joke, that is. When ’e’s in China, ’e learns Chinese, an’ when ’e’s in Sigypore, he learns whatever the native lingo is there. I bet it’s the same words ’e learns everywhere ’e goes.’ The faces round the brazier cracked with laughter. They all hated Rankin’s guts. ‘Where’s ’e get the dough from, anyway?’ Bert demanded.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘he’s in some racket or other. Started with watches – you know how crazy the Russians are for anything that ticks. He managed to smuggle some out with him. Told me so the other night. And then he’s in charge of stores. That’s always a help to a man like Rankin. And he’s chummed up with that little political commissar who speaks English.’

‘D’yer mean the fresh-faced boy wot’s s’pposed ter keep tabs on the local commandant?’ Bert scowled into the fire. ‘I seen ’im yesterday, struttin’ alongside of ’is boss fit ter burst a ligyment. Smart as a new pin, ’e looked. A sly little chit, if you ask me. Ever bin in that place da’n on Molotov Street, Corp?’

‘No,’ I told him.

‘Wish I ’ad as much dough as Rankin’s got,’ he went on. I was only half-listening. ‘I s’ppose ’e’ll be drunk again ter-night when ’e comes back – chuckin’ ’is weight aba’t as usual, gettin’ poor little Sills ter make ’is bed fer ’im. ’E’s a fair swine.’

And at that moment we heard Rankin’s voice in the corridor outside. It was angry and slurred. ‘Why the hell can’t we go aboard in the morning?’ we heard him ask. And another voice replied, ‘Special duty. Lt-Commander Selby insisted that you’d got to be there by 2200 hours. That’s why I had to rout you out.’

Then the door opened and Rankin stood there with a piece of paper in his hand. He wasn’t drunk. But there were two hectic spots in the smooth white of his cheeks and his eyes were bright. With him was a Naval writer from NOIC’s office – that was the office of the Naval Officer in Charge, Murmansk. Rankin leaned his bulk against the doorpost, pushed his cap on to the back of his head and said, ‘Who wants to go home?’ He had a sadistic little smile on his lips as he watched our faces. He knew that we were all fed to the teeth with Murmansk. He watched the rustle of expectation that ran through the faces round the brazier.

‘Thinks ’e’s rafflin’ tickets for a passage ’ome in the Queen Mary,’ muttered Bert, and the others grinned.

Rankin heard the remark, but the smile didn’t leave his face. ‘I see you and I are going to get on well together, Cook.’ Then he turned to the clerk. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

‘Seven-thirty,’ was the reply.

‘If I have ’em paraded at eight-thirty and get down to the quay about nine – that all right?’

‘As long as you’re on board before ten, Mr. Rankin,’ was the reply.

‘Good.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Corporal Vardy!’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘You’ll parade with the others detailed on this list at eight-thirty sharp, outside. And see that it’s a smart turnout. Sills, get my kit packed and ready.’ With that he handed me the paper and went out.

An eager crowd of faces peered at it over my shoulder. We read it by the light of the brazier:

The following personnel awaiting repatriation will embark on the SS Trikkala, No. 4 berth, Lenin Quay, not later than 2200 hours, 2nd March, 1945:

Warrant Officer L. R. Rankin, Corporal J. L.

Vardy, Private P. Sills, Gunner H. B. Cook.

Dress for Army personnel: F.S.M.O. Kitbags will be carried. Warrant Officer Rankin will be in charge of the party throughout the voyage. He will report to Captain Halsey, master of the ‘Trikkala,’ on arrival on board. He will hold himself and his party at Captain Halsey’s disposal for special duties during the voyage.

We drank Bert’s vodka then and there, and two hours later were trudging through the snow-carpeted streets towards the river and the lights of the dock. The Trikkala was not a beautiful ship. She hadn’t even the utility lines of the American liberty boat berthed astern of her. She was like an angular old spinster with her single tall funnel, high bridge and clutter of deckhousings. She had a three-inch gun perched on her high bows and another aft. Boats hung in their davits either side of the bridge and there was a third at the stern. Rafts clung precariously to their fittings above the after deckhousing. But we weren’t worrying about her looks as we climbed the gangway. We’d have cheerfully embarked in a North Sea trawler if it had been going to England.

The Trikkala was loading as we went aboard. Her holds were open and into them was being poured load after load of iron-ore. She had her derricks working and the clatter of the donkey engines and the roar of the ore pouring into the ship was deafening. Fore and aft the holds smoked like volcanoes as the ore dust billowed up into the dazzle of the loading lights. The thick mantle of snow that covered her decks was no longer white, but a dirty, reddish brown.

‘Halt your men there, Corporal,’ Rankin ordered. ‘I’ll go and see the Captain.’

We halted at the top of the gangway and stood waiting whilst the bitter wind blew choking clouds of ore dust in our faces.

Had we known then what Fate had in store for us, no military order ever devised would have sent us across that gangway on to the deck of the Trikkala. But we didn’t know. We just stood there, numbed and cold, watching without curiosity as Rankin climbed the ladder to the bridge where Captain Halsey paced to and fro. We knew nothing then of the nature of the man or of the thoughts that were racing through his mind as he walked the bridge of his ship.

Captain Halsey’s dead now. But he still haunts me in my dreams – a little, violent man with a black beard and black hair and black little button eyes to match, eyes that were wild and greedy and cruel. A madman full of dramatic gestures and long Shakespearean speeches that he plucked from his memory to suit his mood. A madman? But there was method in his madness. My god, yes – there was method in it. The devil himself in a peaked cap and a blue serge uniform with little gilt buttons couldn’t have plotted the damnation of a platoon of human souls with an easier conscience than Halsey planned the cold-blooded murder of a like number of human beings.

And whilst we stood on that frozen deck, the Rock was waiting for us out there in the Barents Sea. Maddon’s Rock. I shall never forget that place. Milton’s blind eyes had never seen the desolation of those seas when he described his Hell. Torrent fire, dire hail, perpetual storms and parching air, yes – but out there, lit through the eternal night by the cold, groping fingers of the Northern Lights, is my idea of Hell; a restless tumult of waves tumbling in thunderous cascades across the reefs, climbing the cliffs of the Rock and pouring green along its flanks. And the Rock itself – living rock, as much a part of our earth as a green hill or a moss grown bank, but here an island, thrust up out of the wrack of ocean – grey, bleak, sheened with ice and polished by the waters so that it is as smooth as the skull of a dead man.

But we knew nothing of all this as we waited for Rankin on the Trikkala’s frozen deck. In five minutes he was back with the first mate, a dour, lanky Scot named Hendrik, with restless eyes and a scar that ran from the tip of his left ear to the point of his jaw. ‘Come along, Corporal,’ Rankin said, ‘and I’ll show you your quarters.’ I followed them to the after-deck-housing. Just aft of the engine-room hatches on the port side was a wide steel door. The mate threw off the clips and slid it back. Then he switched on the lights to reveal a bare room about twenty feet by ten. There were no portholes and no fittings of any sort. The walls and roof were of steel and steel deck plates formed the floor. It smelt of stale grease.

‘There ye are, Mr. Rankin,’ said the mate. ‘They’ll live here wi’ the cargo.’

Rankin turned to me. ‘Get your men settled in, Corporal,’ he said. ‘A special cargo will be coming on board tonight. It will be stowed here. You and your men will act as guard.’ Then to the mate: ‘Any idea what this cargo is, Mr. Hendrik?’

The mate’s eyes flicked to Rankin’s face and he said, ‘No.’ But it was said a little too emphatically.

Rankin looked at the empty space of the room. ‘Can’t be a very big cargo if it’s to go in here,’ he murmured. ‘What was the place used for, Mr. Hendrik?’

‘Mess-room for the after-deck,’ Hendrik replied. ‘We shifted ’em ’oot this morning.’

‘Queer, having a mess-room right on deck,’ said Rankin.

‘Aye. But it wasna designed for a mess-room. The Trikkala’s Clydeside built to Greek specifications. I fancy the Greeks used this as a handy place for stowing passengers’ baggage and odd bits of cargo that couldna be stowed away in the hold of her.’

Rankin seemed to have lost interest. He turned to me and said, ‘Get your men settled in now, Corporal. Mr. Hendrik here will have blankets and hammocks sent up. I’ll let you have your guard orders as soon as the cargo arrives.’

As I turned I heard him say to the mate, ‘The Captain mentioned that there was a spare cabin I could use.’

‘Aye,’ Hendrik replied.

‘Well, chum, wot’s the griff?’ Bert asked as I returned to the two figures standing forlornly by the gangway.

‘You’ll see,’ I said and took them aft to our new quarters.

Even Sills, a little uncomplaining north countryman, said, ‘It’s goin’ ter be beastly cold laike oop ’ere.’ Bert looked at me and said, ‘Wot’s the idea, Corp? I was speakin’ ter one of the seamen an’ ’e said there was bunks to spare da’n in the foc’stle. I s’ppose because we’re in the darned Army, they fink we’ll be ’appy ter kip da’n in a perishin’ spot like this.’

I said, ‘We’re here because there’s some sort of a special cargo coming oh board and we’re detailed for guard duties throughout the voyage.’

‘Guard dooties!’ Bert flung his kit into one corner. ‘They would fink up somefink like that. Why can’t we be repatriated peaceful-like, same as if we was decent citizens. Where’s that Mr. Rankin? Don’t see his kit around. S’ppose ’e’ll be feedin’ wiv the officers da’n in a nice cosy mess-room while we’re freezin’ ter death up ’ere. I can just ’ear ’im saying to the capting, Hi’m a Warrant Officer of the Royal Navy. Hi’m not accustomed ter feedin’ wiv the men.’ He slipped his pack on to the floor and his tin hat clattered on the steel deck-plating. ‘Nice trip this is goin’ ter be! Didn’t you raise a squeal for better quarters, Corp?’

‘Couldn’t very well,’ I said. ‘You saw the movement order. Detailed for special duties during the voyage.’

‘Gawd!’ he said and sat himself down morosely on his kitbag.

Half an hour later as I stood on deck watching the loading of the ship, four Russian lorries came lumbering along the dockside and stopped opposite the Trikkala. They were open trucks and they were loaded with big square packing cases. There were three Red Army guards on each truck.

A British Naval Officer came on board and went up to the bridge. Shortly afterwards one of the derricks was swung out towards the leading truck and the work of swinging the packing cases on board began. It was our special cargo. The cases were marked ‘Hurricane Engines for Replacement’.

‘First time I ever heard of a special guard being placed on dud aero engines,’ Bert grumbled. I’d never seen him in this sort of mood before. He was usually so cheerful.

When all were stowed safely, the Naval Officer with Rankin and the skipper of the Trikkala and a Russian official of some sort came in and counted the cases. Then a sheaf of papers was produced and everybody signed. When that was done the Naval Officer turned to the Trikkala’s skipper and said, ‘Well, it’s your responsibility now, Captain Halsey.’ Then to Rankin, ‘See that you keep a strict guard, Mr. Rankin.’ Then they went out, all but Rankin, who called me over and handed me a typewritten sheet. ‘Those are your guard orders, Corporal,’ he said. ‘Two hours on, four hours off night and day. Guard on duty will be properly dressed and armed. He’ll stand or march up and down outside this door.’ He leaned closer to me and his breath reeked of drink as he added, ‘And if I find any slackness – the guard not on duty or not dressed correctly – you’ll be in trouble, Corporal, and so will the man on duty.’

Bert stood up and came towards us. ‘Two on an’ four off,’ he said. ‘Ain’t yer goin’ ter do guard dooty wiv us then, Mr. Rankin?’

For a moment Rankin appeared too surprised to speak. He gave a little intake of breath and then said stiffly and with suave menace, ‘A Warrant Officer of the Royal Navy, Cook, doesn’t do guard duties.’

‘So we ’as ter do it for you, eh? That ain’t fair, yer know. We’re all in the same boat, in a manner o’ speakin’. If we ’ad a sergeant wiv us nah instead of a ruddy Warrant Officer, he’d muck in like any decent bloke would.’

Rankin literally shook with anger. ‘A Warrant Officer is not a sergeant,’ he said, and his voice was pitched a shade higher than usual. ‘Any more lip from you, Cook, and I’ll have you up before the Captain.’

Bert gave a toothless grin. ‘An’ do me guard dooty for me whilst I’m in irons – I don’t fink.’

‘I’m not as simple as that,’ replied Rankin smoothly. ‘You’re expecting some leave when you get in, aren’t you?’

‘Gosh! I should ’ope so,’ Bert answered. ‘Four munfs in Roosia – ain’t I earned it?’

Rankin’s voice suddenly sharpened. ‘Whether you’ve earned it or not, my lad, you just watch your step. All of you,’ he added, his eyes glancing quickly from one to the other of us, ‘or you won’t get any leave.’ Then he turned to me with a little sneering smile. ‘I hear you’re going for a commission, Corporal?’ And when I didn’t say anything, he said, ‘Well, are you or aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good!’ He smiled and turned to go. At the door he stopped. ‘You see this guard runs smoothly then, Corporal, or I’ll give you a report that’ll send you running back to your unit with your tail between your legs. Now get your sentry posted.’

When he had gone, Bert turned to me. ‘Why don’t yer stand up to ’im?’ he said. ‘It’s you wot’s got the stripes, not me.’ And when I said nothing he turned away with a look of disgust and I heard him mutter to Sills, ‘Going for a commission – fine feeble awfficer he’ll make.’

I posted him as sentry and then went for’ard for a stroll round the ship. Loading appeared to have ceased. The derricks were still and the holds were just dark craters in the ship’s decks. The arc lights for our berth had been switched off. The Liberty boat behind us was still loading. The clatter of her donkey engines split the night like pneumatic drills. And across the river the arc lights blazed above the wharfs and the temporary wooden sheds where roofs were weighed down with snow. The sound of loading came loud and clear through the frozen night.

But the Trikkala seemed to have settled to sleep in her little pool of shadow. Only the deck lights swung their dim yellow globes in the wind, casting dark moving shadows across the deck. On the bridge the muffled figures of the watch paced to and fro. The wind was from the east. It came roaring over the huddle of dockside sheds and made strange noises in the Trikkala’s superstructure. It was bitterly cold and already the snow had a crisp crust of ice that crunched beneath my feet. I got to windward of the bridge on the starboard side and leaned my back against the sheltering ironwork.

The noise of the docks was now no more than a distant clatter. There were no arc lights to dazzle the night. I had a clear view down the black waters of the Tuloma River to Kola Bay. Distant buoy lights danced with their reflections like will-o’-the-wisps. Down the estuary, far, far to the north, the horizon showed as a black line against the cold, changing colours of the Northern Lights.

I lit a cigarette. I felt depressed. I cursed Rankin for letting slip that I was going for a commission. And I was angry with Betty for forcing my hand. Instead of a month’s disembarkation leave, I was due to report immediately to Deepcut for pre-OCTU training. Besides, I wasn’t cut out for an Army Officer’s job. The Navy – yes. I’ve been sailing very nearly since I could walk. At sea I’ve plenty of confidence. But the Navy had turned me down on eyesight. And in the Army I’d always felt like a fish out of water.

A light suddenly shone out from a porthole just to the left of where I was standing. The porthole was open. A voice said, ‘Come in, Mr. Hendrik, come in.’ It was a soft, gentle voice with a strangely vibrant quality: A door closed and there was the sound of a cork being drawn out of a bottle. ‘Now, what about this guard?’

Hendrik’s voice answered, ‘Well, it’s nae more than we expected.’

‘A guard – no. But we expected soldiers, not a Naval Warrant Officer. That might make it awkward. Know anything about this fellow Rankin, Mr. Hendrik?’

‘Aye. I met him in – weel, I met him the other nicht. I’ve an idea that if there’s any deefficulty wi’ him he could be made to see reason. He’s no’ short o’ cash. If ye like I’ll away and see Kalinsky in the mornin’. It’d be Kalinsky he’d be dealing wi’ – they all do. As for the corporal and the other two soldiers, we’ll no’ have any trouble—’

And that was all I heard of the conversation for the porthole suddenly closed and the little circle of light was blotted out as it was battened down from inside. I stood there for a moment, watching the glowing tip of my cigarette and trying to make sense out of the fragment of conversation I had heard. Hendrik had been speaking to the captain. I realised that. But just what the significance of it was I could not determine.

Puzzled, I walked slowly back to our quarters. Bert was pacing up and down outside the door. He had his rifle slung on his shoulder and he swung his arms to keep himself warm. His face looked pinched and cold in the light that swung above the engine-room hatches. ‘Any luck, Corp?’ he asked